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This time, she doesn’t argue. We shovel the last of the dirt in silence.
By the time we’re done, Ella is trembling from exhaustion. I want to take her into my arms so badly my hands ache with it. Instead, I force myself to scan the ground, the trees, the approach path.
No lights.
No voices.
No Hazel.
Only darkness and the quiet pressure of all the secrets rotting beneath this place.
I lead Ella back to the utility cart. Neither of us speaks as I drive through the woods toward the carriage house. I park and cut the engine. She doesn’t ask about Hazel. I don’t mention her either. She seems to know this place. She’ll return.
Ella sits beside me, silent and rigid. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I pull up the notes app and write down coordinates. A gate code. A secondary code. And a phone number.
I show her the screen. “Memorize this.”
She looks at it and then at me.
“Memorize it,” I say again. “Say it back.”
She glares at me.
“Ella.”
She says it back. Perfectly.
I take a key from the ring in my pocket and remove it from the others. Black fob. No other insignia. I press it into her palm.
“The Range Rover is in the east garage,” I say. “Bay four. I’ll take you back through the tunnel. Once you’re in the car, take the lower service road until you hit the property line, and then follow the coordinates. Don’t stop if anyone signals you. Don’t answer calls unless they come from the number you memorized.”
She looks down at the key in her hand.
“The safe house is stocked,” I continue. “Food, water, burner phones, clothes, cash. There’s a medical kit in the upstairs bathroom and a safe in the floor of the bedroom closet. Code is the second sequence I showed you.”
“You planned for this,” she says.
“Yes.”
“For years.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling anyone.”
“Yes.”
“Were you going to leave?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I was going to survive.”
“And what are you going to do now?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“Go back inside.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
